


heartbeats

by alpacas



Category: Much Ado About Nothing - Shakespeare
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, F/M, SOULMATE AU COME AT ME, a lot of soulmark related worldbuilding, and a couple of classical references i'm actually proud of, because why do things the easy way, but for like the 16th century, but......shakespeare, claudio is still terrible, terrible attempts at formal prose, unfinished so far
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-11
Updated: 2021-01-11
Packaged: 2021-03-15 19:08:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28693713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alpacas/pseuds/alpacas
Summary: “There’s no need to be shy ‘bout it, is my view,” says Margaret, one such evening. “If you have a mark it’s for one reason.”“Marriage,” says Hero, smiling.“A fine word for a fine lady, but what to a girl?” Margaret laughs.“Even a girl might dream of marriage,” Hero sighs, drifting towards the window; the view of the village, the countryside beyond, yet unmarred by returning soldiers.“Clever, the woman who invented the game. A mark is but the snare ‘round the ankle of the man seeking to claim his prize: hewillhave it, but not flee it come morning.”--Or: When the Governor's daughter, Hero, is betrothed to Count Claudio following the revelation of their soulmarks, a wedding is planned. Beatrice, the cousin of Hero, has had a mark for years now, and is unmarriageable for it: what man would wed the claim of another? Well, there's always Signior Benedick…Much Ado About Nothing: the Soulmark AU
Relationships: Beatrice/Benedick (Much Ado About Nothing), Claudio/Hero (Much Ado About Nothing)
Comments: 9
Kudos: 29





	heartbeats

The fashion of maidens newly flowered is to bear their right arms bare, as had the Greek and Romans before — sleeves slashed and tied in segments, milky and thin, ribbons adorned with flowers — the fashion when Hero comes of age is folds delicately parted, the image suggestive, her skin fair and milky between pale blue silk, a concession to her status — some, such as Margaret, prefer pinks and reds around the prize, which is so suggestive as to make her blush, and giggle about it in the privacy in their chambers.

“There’s no need to be shy ‘bout it, is my view,” says Margaret, one such evening. “If you have a mark it’s for one reason.”

“Marriage,” says Hero, smiling.

“A fine word for a fine lady, but what to a girl?” Margaret laughs.

“Even a girl might dream of marriage,” Hero sighs, drifting towards the window; the view of the village, the countryside beyond, yet unmarred by returning soldiers.

“Clever, the woman who invented the game. A mark is but the snare ‘round the ankle of the man seeking to claim his prize: he _will_ have it, but not flee it come morning.”

“Be not too vulgar near my cousin. You say the mark has but one reason; I say one reason is yet too many,” says Beatrice cooly, Beatrice who wears long sleeves.

The fashion of eight years ago was for lace to serve as a veil, for cords and ribbon tied in a fisherman’s style, the illusion of coverage and the skin clear beneath. Beatrice’s gown was green and too heavy for the heat of late autumn, but the breeze from the sea was pleasant on her arms. Sixteen and with her share of suitors, for even without lands or titles she could provide a fair dowry, and there were always those who were willing to wager their sons against the chance of Leonadis’s daughter not bearing any. This she was aware of, and curiously affected by. Hero was unflowered still, and yet when pressed held no fear of her future: so long as her husband was well, and kind, and she trusted in her father to do that choosing well on her behalf.

“Wouldst you rather not choose to marry, or not?” Beatrice had pressed the child.

“But I will marry,” the girl said. “Just as the king will reign and my father govern, and God watch over us all. Just as I am a maid, I shall become a woman.”

“Those of us lower to Earth view it different,” Margaret said — it was an old debate between the three scholars. “A mark in the village isn’t your husband’s soul; ’tis his claim.”

“Is that much different?” asked sweet Hero.

“To men, if not Lords.” Margaret had a mark and bore it proudly, and no husband to compare it against. Men, too, rarely wore sleeves short, to show their Lady’s souls on their skin.

“I’ll tell you what it really means,” Margaret tells Beatrice later, in confidence: “It means: ‘she isn’t a maid no longer; or will not be one soon enough,’ and so everyone can relax and be jolly, with propriety bid farewell. Only Cupid’s first arrow leaves a mark: who follows can shoot where he will.”

“Should a man pierce sweet Hero, my uncle will surely rouse the guard.”

“Poor maid! To need so often be wary of arrows in the night!”

And so: Beatrice is sixteen and unblemished and unwed both. Should an unworthy man look upon her and a mark bloom, they would need be wed, and so her suitors woo through intermediaries, her strolls and leisure are supervised, her eyes gently averted from the dangers of all. She seeks her suitors through windows and peep-holes if their interviews interest her: this one is learned, this one said to be a handsome man, a third mocked in the servant’s quarters for his pliability even to them. She knows not what she seeks in a husband but interest, and is yet relieved when she glimpses them and remains unchanged.

Best to remain a maid, she thinks, and free of madness. Better even to be as Margaret, and preserve yourself if not your virtue, than to lose one’s soul to a shape on your arm. And yet, to hide herself away from all but kin and the marked is a tiresome task. Near better to be a nun, or to a nunnery, and be done with the affair.

She hears then voices from the garden, the other side of the kitchen’s walls. Ever keen, she goes to the trellis, to peer and see what is discussed: soldiers at a glance, three or four.

Well! All know the song and the verse.

Don Pedro assembles his most likely men to meet Leonado’s house, and it is a Count Claudio whose welcoming gift is Hero’s heart. All the assembled men were lords and valiant and worthy of Leonado’s heir, and yet the pageant is graceful and the newly betrothed pink-cheeked and handsome by its end.

The count is a handsome man, and Beatrice is as gracious as she can be upon her introduction to her cousin: he praises her famed wit and she his famed valor, Hero beaming and blushing on Claudio’s arm. After the first pass, the prince’s other men are let in — those too low-born or those already marked, as well as the prince’s bastard brother. She sees Signior Benedick at once, and her mouth thins as he approaches: then he falters: then he narrows his eyes at the newly crowned king and queen of love, drawing up short; comically. “Say no more! ’Tis _you_ that’s claimed the hero? What of battle, of war?”

“He fought me not at all,” Hero says gaily; “Signior; I am pleased to see you.”

“Ahh,” is the man’s ungracious reply.

“Congratulations, I think,” Claudio suggests laughingly, showing his adorned arm, Hero blushing prettily. “You must forgive my friend; he is ere a bachelor.”

“As so few men remain! You wound me by baring arms, Signior; did you not vow to never wed?”

“Nay; I vowed to not wed but for Love, and she has presented herself on this day before us.”

“You met her a moment past. I would not have let you in to greet her had I thought you so easily slain.”

“No one has yet died this day,” Beatrice cuts in, irked by his mockery of her cousin.

“Oh?” He looks her over and she does not flinch. “Lady Galatea! Do _you_ live?”

“I pray you, spare us your wit; this is meant to be a day of cheer.”

“To _you_ , my lady, I come with offers of peace. I thought us allies against this if naught else,” Benedick grumbles. “Have I not heard you scorn marriage? Has not all of Messina? ‘There goes the Lady Spinster, who alone of all women remains unwounded?’ Well; I am little better — although _little_ better, true, for many ladies do love of _me_ , even as I love none — and none you. We are brothers in this cause, and our battle is this folly. I am ready to take up arms!”

“I know no man who loves a lady so much as you love your own voice,” Beatrice says. She is irritated. “I would not bear arms with you.”

“Yea; you do have the right of it,” he says. “In this too we are brothers.”

The household had been planning the celebration of Hero’s engagement for weeks, of course, long before there was an engagement to celebrate. Beatrice had assisted in the provisioning for the banquet, wondering all the while at the farce: the way her uncle would announce dinner as a spontaneous occasion, when the seats had long since been arranged, with only an unwritten name at Leonadis’s right hand, Hero’s betrothed for this night superseding even the prince’s place of honor.

 _For does not Cupid aim well his bow_? Had a mark not revealed itself, the feast would have occurred regardless, all the hare and sweets sent out in celebration. But Beatrice loves her cousin more than life, and even if the celebration resembles a bit of theater in the village square, still she does her part to ensure a happy audience.

Of course there is a dance after the dinner. She had not been allowed dances before, but for pretending with Hero and the other ladies, in the days where she could yet meet a match, for any man might seize upon an unblemished arm, and only women married or betrothed could safely take part. Married, betrothed, or Beatrice, and in this she must admit she owes Benedick thanks, or alms, if not arm.

She had not named him, of course, and he had been no more eager than she in this. She had confessed to her uncle of slipping out the manor, of catching glimpse of the fleet as it sailed past — men far to, glinting in the sun and wine-colored sea, and she _had_ gone later and had imagined that one of those dark figures was truly her soulmate, amusing herself with the misery of that life: a sailor’s wife, a one-room hut, bare footed and solitary for months of the year, and she had not known if she’d longed for it or no.

She had been punished, and had borne it, and had confessed it at church, and as Beatrice had hoped it had then been buried (perhaps in the family crypt): even should this sailor-man be identified, he was too low in rank for the governor’s niece, even one trailed by rumors of impropriety and disobedience.

If she had one regret, it was that her place as a caution for young girls had led to further restrictions on the only one who truly mattered. But perhaps when Hero was safely married, Beatrice could steal her, now and then, from her husband. It would not do for her sweet cousin to live trapped in a fisherman’s hovel.

Dancing, she does a turn with the fishmonger herself. She congratulates her uncle on the match, as is expected of her, and then does a round with Signior Claudio himself, who is gracious and polite and speaks of Hero in a way Beatrice supposes is charming. She does a round with the prince, who is polite, and Benedick last of all, who is not.

In bed, Hero wants to talk and talk of her beloved, whose life story she has gathered over the evening and now wants to discuss, and Beatrice hums along — and tries to bite back the lesser of her remarks, that his eyes are clear and beautiful, but clear water tends to be the emptiest; that obedience to one’s liege and bravery in battle are commendable for a soldier and useless at a table, and that lest the soldier is slaying pigs and sheep, his wife’s table will remain bare — et cetera. She does mention that the company he keeps is regrettable, but that insight only causes Hero to laugh.

“Signior Benedick is merry, and I do not share the grudge you bear him.”

“Call it not a grudge,” she huffs, flipping herself to her back in their bed.

“I think you will like what else I name it less,” Hero giggles. They lay in silence for a time, and Beatrice is nearly asleep. “Did your mark burn upon your skin when it formed?” Hero asks presently.

They have never, to Beatrice’s memory, spoken of it.

“Yes, a sort of prickle,” she says, stretching.

“I had imagined it a warming heat, as the bloom of the sun, but it was much more of August than of April…”

“Well, one’s husband is much one’s emperor, they say,” Beatrice quips, “And Persephone’s warmth comes from fleeing hers.” Village women often say that the pain of the mark is the pain of the marriage. “Thy love must be strong, to burn so,” she says gently.

“Signior Claudio is gracious and gentle, loyal and kind.”

“A contradiction in a soldier. Are they not meant to be braggarts and fools? Seldom does a soldier bow before his enemy.”

“Nay, but I find it promising in a husband,” Hero says. “I beg you to be happy for me, for I cannot bear your scorn.”

“I am sorry, my dear.” She rolls to her side, to face her cousin. “I am scornful, and yet it is only a maiden’s folly. I shall miss you when you have wed and gone; I have dreaded this day as you have dreamt it.”

“I know, cousin,” says Hero, ever gentle. “And,” she says, sighing sleepily, “I have dreaded it too…”


End file.
